Dickinson on Apple TV+

Emily Dickinson is back, bitches!
Exclusively on Apple TV+
for only five dollars per month or free
with the purchase of a new Mac or iPhone.
Fuck the Mandalorian and the Simpsons
beckoning us from inside the mouse house.
It’s a trap that will break your back once you step through.
Neither have been good for decades,
and the live-action Lady and the Tramp
is a piss-poor imitation of classic animation.
The Little Mermaid looks good, but that’s free on ABC.
I will not stop for Mickey, though he kindly stops for me.
His carriage has horses but no wheels
and travels in circles with the merry-go-round.
Fast, but always returning to where we started,
stuck in the past chasing after plastic figures
printed from the same mold. Some silver, some gold,
all cheap and unable to stand on their own.
The castle deteriorates. The theme parks fall apart.
The honeymoon approaches dawn.
Change the channel and support real poetry
in Dickinson, played by Hailee Steinfeld,
featuring Wiz Khalifa as death.
Let the past die. Kill it if you must.
No more bad live action remakes.
Embrace something new. Apple TV+.

Death, where is thy sting?

Emily Dickinson’s poetry is often short and cryptic but also rich with emotion and imagery one can appreciate even if they cannot fully decipher it. A versatile woman who wrote of nature, death, love, religion, and even feminism, she had a unique perspective on everyday sights. She was able find the beauty in death and the melancholy in joy. The following is one of the latter:

From all the Jails the Boys and Girls
Ecstatically leap –
Beloved only Afternoon
That Prison doesn’t keep

They storm the Earth and stun the Air,
A Mob of solid Bliss –
Alas – that Frowns should lie in wait
For such a Foe as this –

Like Emily, I dwell on death and misery too much. Death’s contours are accentuated most by a joyful sight, such as children at play. I suffer the same thoughts Emily did when I see a happy child. The joy empathy blesses me when I see one quickly sours as reality reminds me of the cruelties of the world. Some children will die early, some will grow wicked, and some will suffer atrocities no loving god would allow. I’d prefer to avoid such thoughts, but such hardships happen too frequently to ignore.

I don’t voice such worries, because I don’t want to frighten away everybody with my pessimism. Instead, I muffle them with videogames and alcohol. But to read a common thought of mine written by my favorite poet eases the sting with which Death bullies me. It’s become an incantation to repel that demon far enough to where I can’t hear his bark anymore.

I can enjoy joy again.